Post by Tin on Sept 8, 2010 11:04:44 GMT -5
www.courier-journal.com/article/20100908/VELOCITY/309080056
When I was a wee one dreaming of a career in journalism, I fantasized about becoming a great music journo, interviewing all my favorite bands, asking them about their favorite colors and the meaning behind key verses.
“So, Mr. LeBon,” I'd say as I held up the little plastic microphone attached to my big, boxy cassette recorder, “Tell me, please, what was the inspiration behind the line, ‘Bop bop bop bop bop this is planet Earth'?”
My future was bright, as you can see.
Somewhere along the line I traded in my desire to get the real story behind Sting's fascination with Carl Jung (remember “Synchronicity”?) for a career in the music business and eventually marriage to a bassist. Though the past 20 years have definitely peeled back the layers of the industry and exposed the players therein, and I've learned a lot of “Don't meet your heroes” lessons, I'm still as in awe of music as I was when I was 10 and would hang around at Shay Kousal's house so I could listen to Abba's “Super Trouper” over and over.
I remember the first pangs of youthful longing as I sat by the stereo soaking in Christopher Cross' “Sailing” and grasping the initial strains of cool factor as I discovered my brother's Led Zeppelin and Utopia vinyl… of course it was all vinyl back then. Vinyl or 8-track, which I thought was a seriously excellent invention. You could listen to the whole record in one go! Nevermind that it cut songs in half as it switched from track to track.
After a serious two years as a hardcore Duran Duran disciple, it was time to grow up a little from the very pretty to the mysteriously dark and delicious.
At 15, I devoured Jim Morrison's biography, “No One Here Gets Out Alive,” over and over, and a fascination with people who took life to the very edge began. Of course, poor Jim Morrison is laughed about in most corners these days, but I know the Lizard King is still there, lurking about Père-Lachaise, just waiting for a new crop of discovery-minded teens to stumble upon him and open the doors of perception.
And so it went, I had hair like Robert Smith that grew out into my first adventures with real live bands in the Deep Ellum neighborhood in Dallas. I couldn't believe how super groovy my life was at 17, hanging out with The Daylights, The Buck Pets, Loco Gringos and The Hickoids. I was in the middle of it and it was all happening! It's strange that all those experiences that I thought were so large and crazy (I did drive Grant from Soul Asylum to Houston, after all!) now seem a bit provincial through the lens of so many My Morning Jacket tours.
However, the hush in my heart when the guys play “I Will Sing You Songs” or “The Bear” is much the same as the one I felt when I first listened to The Cure's “Head on the Door.” I remember that first walk into Madison Square Garden on New Year's Eve in 2008, when the full effect hit me — “Holy cow, this is Madison Square Garden and my family is freaking headlining it!” It wasn't that different from grabbing on to the railing at the front of the stage and getting smooshed while singing out the lyrics to every single song The Alarm played at The Arcadia in Dallas.
I'm fortunate that my cynical heart still experiences the thrill of something new but such is the power of music. Like math, it's a universal language. We all connect to those emotions coming from the speakers because we know them too! I remember going to see Joey McIntyre in Los Angeles. One of the best shows I've ever seen, if only because the joy those ladies who'd come in from The Valley were feeling was real.
That's what music is, right? The feel of something real.
When I was a wee one dreaming of a career in journalism, I fantasized about becoming a great music journo, interviewing all my favorite bands, asking them about their favorite colors and the meaning behind key verses.
“So, Mr. LeBon,” I'd say as I held up the little plastic microphone attached to my big, boxy cassette recorder, “Tell me, please, what was the inspiration behind the line, ‘Bop bop bop bop bop this is planet Earth'?”
My future was bright, as you can see.
Somewhere along the line I traded in my desire to get the real story behind Sting's fascination with Carl Jung (remember “Synchronicity”?) for a career in the music business and eventually marriage to a bassist. Though the past 20 years have definitely peeled back the layers of the industry and exposed the players therein, and I've learned a lot of “Don't meet your heroes” lessons, I'm still as in awe of music as I was when I was 10 and would hang around at Shay Kousal's house so I could listen to Abba's “Super Trouper” over and over.
I remember the first pangs of youthful longing as I sat by the stereo soaking in Christopher Cross' “Sailing” and grasping the initial strains of cool factor as I discovered my brother's Led Zeppelin and Utopia vinyl… of course it was all vinyl back then. Vinyl or 8-track, which I thought was a seriously excellent invention. You could listen to the whole record in one go! Nevermind that it cut songs in half as it switched from track to track.
After a serious two years as a hardcore Duran Duran disciple, it was time to grow up a little from the very pretty to the mysteriously dark and delicious.
At 15, I devoured Jim Morrison's biography, “No One Here Gets Out Alive,” over and over, and a fascination with people who took life to the very edge began. Of course, poor Jim Morrison is laughed about in most corners these days, but I know the Lizard King is still there, lurking about Père-Lachaise, just waiting for a new crop of discovery-minded teens to stumble upon him and open the doors of perception.
And so it went, I had hair like Robert Smith that grew out into my first adventures with real live bands in the Deep Ellum neighborhood in Dallas. I couldn't believe how super groovy my life was at 17, hanging out with The Daylights, The Buck Pets, Loco Gringos and The Hickoids. I was in the middle of it and it was all happening! It's strange that all those experiences that I thought were so large and crazy (I did drive Grant from Soul Asylum to Houston, after all!) now seem a bit provincial through the lens of so many My Morning Jacket tours.
However, the hush in my heart when the guys play “I Will Sing You Songs” or “The Bear” is much the same as the one I felt when I first listened to The Cure's “Head on the Door.” I remember that first walk into Madison Square Garden on New Year's Eve in 2008, when the full effect hit me — “Holy cow, this is Madison Square Garden and my family is freaking headlining it!” It wasn't that different from grabbing on to the railing at the front of the stage and getting smooshed while singing out the lyrics to every single song The Alarm played at The Arcadia in Dallas.
I'm fortunate that my cynical heart still experiences the thrill of something new but such is the power of music. Like math, it's a universal language. We all connect to those emotions coming from the speakers because we know them too! I remember going to see Joey McIntyre in Los Angeles. One of the best shows I've ever seen, if only because the joy those ladies who'd come in from The Valley were feeling was real.
That's what music is, right? The feel of something real.